


Blow-by-Blow

by areyoumiserableyet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Boxer Grantaire, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Minor Violence, Motorcycles, Pining, Piningjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21957679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet/pseuds/areyoumiserableyet
Summary: Enjolras takes boxing lessons
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 259





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashembie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashembie/gifts).



> This is my gift to carverly on tumblr for the 2019 Les Mis Secret Santa! I hope you like it <3

When Bahorel suggested Enjolras take up boxing, everyone had laughed. Enjolras included.

Bahorel had simply shrugged, muttering, “Suit yourself. But if you insist on yelling in the faces of white supremacists, you should probably learn how to throw a punch.”

“And take a hit,” Feuilly added with a wry smile.

At the time, Enjolras had simply rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the book he was reading. Now, however, it’s two weeks later, and Enjolras is pulling up to Bahorel’s boxing gym and parking his car. He had phoned Bahorel a few days before, telling him that he  maybe possibly might be interested in learning more about the subject, and the other man had simply laughed and texted him an address.

Enjolras had decided to keep his foray into the world of combat sport to himself for now. There was a great possibility that he would be absolutely terrible at boxing - the same way he’s been terrible at every other athletic endeavor he’s tried. Besides running, he supposed, although it doesn’t exactly take a lot of refined skill to master that one.

Enjolras pulls back his hair into a loose bun before he gets out of the car and walks up the building. As he views his reflection in the glass doors of the gym, he starts to feel nervous. He has no idea what to expect. Was he supposed to bring his own gloves? Is he going to walk out of there missing a tooth?  _Was he wearing the right clothes?_

As he steps through the doors, Enjolras is - as expected - immediately intimated. Everyone in the gym is wearing considerably less clothing than Enjolras, and are considerably more muscular. Enjolras is very thin and if he’s being honest, he has essentially zero physical strength. Standing in front of his closet that morning, he had decided on wearing a pair of dri-fit sweats cinched at the ankle and a grey hoodie. It was an outfit he always wore running, so he thought it would do for this. But as he looks around, he realizes the rest of the gym’s occupants are wearing only athletic shorts, their toned torsos shiny with sweat.

By comparison, Enjolras looks (and feels) positively wimpy.

As he desperately scans the gym for his friend, Enjolras’s eyes linger on the boxing ring in the middle of the room. It’s much smaller than he imagined it would be, with thick red ropes surrounding the two men who were currently sparring inside. He watches them for a few seconds until it starts making him even more nervous, and he continues his search for Bahorel.

To his left is a series of exercise machines that Enjolras does not know how to use, as well as rows and rows of weights and dumbbells. Some of them are comically large in Enjolras’s opinion, and he wonders if there are actually people who can lift them. To his right are punching bags of all sizes hanging from the ceiling, and as he glances through them for Bahorel, Enjolras is instantly enamored by the man who is currently practicing on one. Enjolras can’t see his face, but he watches fascinated as the man punches the bag hard and in quick succession, the muscles in his back flexing and tensing with each movement. He is bouncing around on his feet a bit, and Enjolras can’t help but admire the graceful way this man moves his body.

His very fit, very sweaty body.

Enjolras is still staring when the man throws his final few punches, slowing himself down in a way that seems both natural and controlled. Enjolras obviously doesn’t know shit about boxing, but even he can tell this guy is probably pretty good.

The man rolls his neck a few times, and Enjolras feels his lip curl into an almost-smile at the sight of his dark curls tumbling around as he does so. Enjolras had just started to appreciate the dark hair that covers his forearms and legs, trying not to imagine what it might be like to run his hands over those thighs, when the man turns around.

“Oh my god,” Enjolras says out loud, just as Bahorel comes jogging over.

“Hey, E!” he calls cheerfully, his booming voice echoing throughout the gym as Enjolras resists the urge to slap his hand over his friend’s mouth.

“Shh!” Enjolras shushes, shoving against Bahorel’s chest. He barely budges. “Why didn’t you tell me Grantaire would be here?!”

“Grantaire?” Bahorel asks quizzically, and really was this man ever not yelling.

“Shhhhhh!” Enjolras says again, waving his hands in front of Bahorel’s face. It is all very unsubtle.

Then again, nothing involving Bahorel was ever subtle.

“Well, well, well...”

Enjolras freezes at the voice behind him.

“Our fearless leader,” Grantaire continues, his tone mocking and full of laughter. Enjolras doesn’t even need to turn around to see the wild grin Grantaire is undoubtedly sending his way. “What are you doing here?”

“Enjolras here has decided to take some super secret boxing lessons,” Bahorel replies happily as Enjolras finally forces himself to turn around and look at Grantaire. The sight makes Enjolras’s throat feel dry and scratchy. “Told him he needed to know how to hold his own at these rallies he’s always going to.”

Grantaire looks positively gleeful. Enjolras considers running away.

“I love that,” Grantaire says, still smiling at Enjolras. He looks him up and down, his gloved hands resting against his waist, and under the scrutiny, Enjolras feels hot all over.

“Yes, well,” Enjolras finally says, swallowing hard. “If you’ll excuse us...” He attempts to walk in the other direction, but Bahorel does not move and Enjolras simply runs into him like he’s brick wall.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Bahorel says, reaching out to place his large hands on Enjolras shoulders from behind. He completely towers over Enjolras, and he can feel his cheeks heat up in embarrassment at the whole ordeal. “I never said I would be the one training you.”

Enjolras’s head snaps around so quickly it’s almost painful. “What do you mean?” he demands, hoping against hope that this conversation was not going in the direction he thought it was.

“I’m a shit trainer,” Bahorel replies easily. “Grantaire here - he’s who you need.”

Enjolras looks at the man in question, and his face perfectly reflects the panic Enjolras is feeling at that moment.  Which was -

“I think I would prefer-“

“I don’t think that’s the bes-“

Enjolras and Grantaire stare at one another - neither of them willing to finish their sentences.

“Great!” Bahorel says, filling the silence. He claps a hand against Enjolras’s back, causing him to stumble forward in surprise. “Have fun, you two!” And then he’s gone.

And it is just him and Grantaire. And Grantaire’s bare chest. 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little backstory

Enjolras had been around Grantaire only a handful of times and always at meetings. It only took once for Enjolras to realize they would Not Be Friends. 

The night they met, it was explained to the group that Grantaire was a friend of Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, and that they had dragged him to that night’s meeting because he was moping and they didn’t want him to mope alone. 

“What an intro,” Grantaire had muttered good-naturedly, smiling a little bashfully at the crowd of strangers in front of him.

Introduction aside, the group welcomed him in like a old friend. Grantaire was charming, after all, and he had such a wide array of hobbies and interests that he found something in common with just about everyone. He and Bahorel bonded quickly - over boxing and drinking in equal measure. Marius and Grantaire often discussed their love of foreign languages - at least that’s what he assumed they were discussing. Enjolras didn’t exactly speak Italian. Jehan and Grantaire hit it off almost immediately, the two of them sharing a love of classic literature and astrology.

All in all, Grantaire seemed to fit quite seamlessly into Les Amis de l’ABC - that is, until Enjolras had began discussing the upcoming rally.

Les Amis had planned the rally in collaboration with a few other local organizations to protest the student lunch debt crisis. The purpose of the rally was to urge local legislators to work with the school boards to develop a plan that would forgive the debt and relieve the burden from the backs of struggling parents. When Enjolras had finished going over the logistics, Grantaire had snorted and said, “Late-stage capitalism, folks. I don’t know that we ever come back from a twelve year old going into debt over frozen chicken fingers.”

It was meant as a joke, but something about the way Grantaire had looked at Enjolras at the time made his skin prickle.

Upon reflection, Enjolras thought it may have had something to do with the fact that up until then, he was actually very fond of Grantaire. It wasn’t often that Enjolras felt an interest in someone in that way, but he had then, almost the minute he met the man. It was more than a physical attraction - though there was plenty of that - Enjolras had felt this magnetic pull when Bossuet introduced the two of them, and Grantaire’s gaze had held his for just a beat too long as they shook hands. When Grantaire had quirked his lip in that half-smile way of his, Enjolras’s stomach did this weird swoopy thing that made him feel a little nauseous and on-edge. It was a pleasant sort of discomfort that Enjolras hadn’t felt in a long time.

So, for Grantaire to reveal himself as a cynic was a little disappointing to say the least.

“Well of course we can come back from this,” Enjolras had said at the time, trying to decipher if Grantaire was kidding or genuinely didn’t believe they could make a difference.

“Marx and Engels predicted this shit storm we’re in now like 150 years ago,” Grantaire answered before Enjolras could continue any further.

“Well, if you’re familiar with The Communist Manifesto then you also know they predicted that the fall of the bourgeoisie and the victory of the proletariat as ‘equally inevitable.’”

“Hope in the form of certainty - like all great propaganda,” Grantaire countered with a smug smile. The argument had quickly escalated from there, and it only ended when Musichetta pulled Grantaire outside for a cigarette.

Enjolras was busy glaring at Grantaire’s retreating back when Courfeyrac clucked his tongue and said, “Well.” 

Enjolras turned to find all eyes on him. “What?!”

“Way to welcome the new kid,” Courfeyrac said with a dry laugh.

“Me?! That wasn’t my fault!” Enjolras objected, looking to Combeferre for support.

It was Joly who answered, “No, it wasn’t. Both of you are idiots.” 

That was about three months ago, and Grantaire had only attended two or three meetings since then. Enjolras never understood why he bothered to come at all, given that he didn’t believe in a single thing Les Amis stood for and thought they were all just wasting their time and energy on fruitless causes. The point was, Enjolras and Grantaire were about as different as two people could get, so for Bahorel to suggest the two of them spend several hours every week alone together was...unwise.

As the two of them watch Bahorel walk away, Enjolras thinks about how he would very much like to throttle him for this, and if Grantaire’s pained expression is anything to go by, he too is planning their friend’s demise.

“Well, uh,” Grantaire says eventually, looking around the gym in a way Enjolras is sure he thinks appears casual. “You ready to get started?”

“You’re serious?” Enjolras asks, the surprise evident in his voice and probably on his face. He was sure Grantaire would back out of this whole thing.

“I mean, well yeah. If you want. I mean, I don’t mind.” Grantaire isn’t looking at Enjolras, and he almost seems...nervous?

“Oh...okay, yeah,” Enjolras says. “If you’re sure.”

“Shall we?” Grantaire says, gesturing toward the open gym. Enjorlas nods in a way that implies _after you_ , and Grantaire leads him over to the corner of the gym, where a mat is set up in front of a mirror. He pulls off his gloves and tosses them to the side.

“Won’t we need those?” Enjolras asks then and Grantaire snorts in reply. 

“Oh, it will be a while before we need those,” he replies, plopping himself down onto the mat. Enjolras follows him a little more gracefully.

“Okay...” he says, feeling reluctant. “What are we doing then?”

“Well, first,” Grantaire starts. “We’re stretching.”

“Stretching.”

“Stretching. It’s very important to be nice and loose before you start.” Grantaire chuckles at his own innuendo and Enjolras simply rolls his eyes and tries not to blush.

The two of them do get started, then - Grantaire leading them through a series of full body stretches. Enjolras tries very hard to keep his mind on the task at hand, but each time Grantaire shows Enjolras a new stretch, he’s forced to closely observe the way his muscles ripple under his skin. Enjolras finds this incredibly distracting.

After stretching, Grantaire informs Enjolras that they will spend most of the session conditioning. “You can learn the proper form all you want, but if you’ve got no strength behind your hits you’ll get no where,” he says.

“What makes you think I have no strength?” Enjolras asks indignantly. Grantaire simply looks at Enjolras for a long moment, eyebrows raised to his hairline.

“Fine. Whatever. What’s next?” 

Next, Enjolras discovered, was actual hell. Grantaire led Enjolras through a series of conditioning work outs - torturous exercises with ridiculous names like “mountain climbers” and “burpees.” Twenty minutes in, Enjolras is winded and sweating profusely.

“Could you at least try to pretend like this is even a little bit challenging for you?!” Enjolras demands suddenly, dropping onto his knees. The two of them are doing “planks,” and Enjolras’s arms are starting to feel like jelly.

“All right, all right,” Grantaire answers, laughing easily as he too moves from his plank position. Enjolras groans loudly, rolling dramatically onto his back until he’s splayed out like a starfish. “I just want to show you a couple of basic stances, and then we can be done for the day.”

“I don’t think I can move,” Enjolras replies. He has his eyes closed, but he’s sure Grantaire is smirking down at him. He cracks one eye open and sure enough -

“Come on. Up and at ‘em,” Grantaire says, reaching his hand down for Enjolras to take. Enjolras places his hand in Grantaire’s, and he pulls him to his feet with ease. 

If Enjolras holds onto Grantaire’s hand for a little longer than necessary, well, he’s just tired and that was just an accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The student lunch debt crisis is (sadly) a real thing here in the US.
> 
> Thanks for reading and don’t forget to pay your fic writers in kudos and comments! :)


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras discovers he has a thing for hands

The following week, Enjolras shows up to his lesson feeling weirdly giddy. For days, he’d been thinking about little else, unable to keep his mind from wandering to thoughts of dark curls and calloused hands at times he was supposed to be critiquing arguments or writing essays for class or doing just about anything else. He was feeling rather confused by these intrusive thoughts, because obviously he found Grantaire attractive - this wasn’t a new revelation. So why, he wondered, did things feel so different suddenly?

Grantaire isn’t there by the time Enjolras arrives, so he sits on a bench against the wall to wait. When fifteen minutes go by and there is still no sign of Grantaire, Enjolras wonders if he should just leave. He’s about to head out when a familiar form comes hurrying through the gym door. 

“Hey, sorry I’m late!” Grantaire says in a rush, sounding out of breath as he stops in front of where Enjolras is sitting. “I got caught up and I didn’t have your number or anything and then I forgot the gloves and had to go back to grab them so I...yeah.”

Enjolras smirks at Grantaire’s groveling, any annoyance at the man’s tardiness flying out the window at the sight of those brown eyes. 

“I was starting to think you’d already given up on me,” Enjolras teases, standing up to follow Grantaire to the mat they’d used a week prior. 

“Not a chance! I see a lot of potential here,” he replies, and Enjolras has to force himself not to read into that comment any further. “Oh, uh, here.”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire questioningly, as he pulls out a box from his large gym bag and holds it out between them. Confused, Enjolras takes the box from him and opens it to reveal a pair of red boxing gloves. When he looks back up at Grantaire, the other man is rubbing the back of his neck nervously. 

“I, uh, hope they’re okay,” he says with a shrug. “It seemed wrong to get anything other than red.”

Enjolras laughs, his cheeks heating up at the gesture. “They’re perfect. Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that. I can pay you ba-”

“They’re a gift,” Grantaire says with a smile before kneeling down to rifle in his bag for his own pair of gloves. They’re black and considerably more worn than the brand new pair Enjolras is holding. “Let’s get to it.” 

After Grantaire has led them through a series of stretches and warm-ups, he claps his hands together and says, “Okay you got four punches you’ll need to master - the jab, cross, hook, and uppercut. I’m going to show you technique in the air and then we’ll wrap your hands so you can practice on the bag.”

Enjolras nods and watches as Grantaire pulls on his gloves, allowing himself a few moments to admire his arms, the muscles well-defined and slick with sweat. The first time Enjolras had seen Grantaire at the gym, he’d been shirtless. Now, however, he wears a thin white tank top and Enjolras wonders if he knows there’s a large splotch of what appears to be black paint down the back. Without thinking, Enjolras reaches out and catches the hem of his shirt between his thumb and forefinger. 

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire asks, looking over his shoulder to see what Enjolras is doing.

His voice snaps Enjolras out of it and he quickly drops the shirt, saying, “Oh, nothing. Sorry, you just have some paint on your shirt.”

Grantaire chuckles, and Enjolras thinks he sees the beginning of a blush creeping up his neck. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I didn’t know you could paint,” Enjolras says, still feeling a little stunned. He didn’t know how it was possible for him to be continuously surprised by Grantaire - by this talented, strange, charming man who has - without trying - nestled himself in the recesses of Enjolras’s mind. 

“Well, the jury is still out on that one, but I do attempt,” he laughs easily. He shakes his head a little, clearly trying to move his hair from his eyes, and stands in what Enjolras has learned is called an Upright stance. “Alright, first up - the jab.”

Once Grantaire is satisfied with Enjolras’s ability to throw each of the four punches, he nods his head toward a bench against the nearest wall and Enjolras follows. 

He watches as Grantaire takes a drink from his water bottle before handing it over to Enjolras and straddling the bench. He pats the space in front of him and Enjolras reluctantly straddles the bench as well, their knees bumping slightly in the process. “I’m going to show you how to wrap your hands,” he says, pulling out a roll of white wrap from his bag. He sets it down on the bench between the two of them and reaches out, gently holding one of Enjolras’s hands in his. “So the purpose of wrapping is to protect your hands. You want to make sure you keep the wrist stabilized and protect your knuckles. The most common injuries happen here-” He rubs his thumb over Enjolras’s knuckles, and Enjolras tries to ignore his pounding heart. “So I’m going to wrap each finger individually to keep everything in line.”

Grantaire continues to chatter away about the anatomy of the hand and the importance of filling up your gloves, but Enjolras can’t focus on anything except the way Grantaire holds his hand, turning it over, spreading his fingers apart as winds the wrap around and around. There’s something oddly intimate about the whole thing, their heads bowed close together, watching as Grantaire makes quick work of his right hand and then left. Enjolras hadn’t realized he had a _thing_ for hands, but after this whole encounter he was sure it was something he’d like to...explore further. This is the thought that’s distracting Enjolras when Grantaire tries to get his attention. 

“Enj? Enjolras? _Enjolras?”_

“Huh? What?” Enjolras replies, looking up at Grantaire’s amused face. 

“I said I’m done,” Grantaire repeats, nodding down at their still joined hands. Enjolras pulls his away as if he’s been burned, and Grantaire simply lays his flat against his own thighs, looking at Enjolras with an unreadable expression. “Start practicing your hits on the bag while I wrap. Then we’ll do some combos.”

Enjolras nods, grateful for a reason to put some much-needed distance between himself and Grantaire and _those hands._

  
  


“Okay, so here’s your basic 1-2,” Grantaire is saying a while later. The two of them are standing in front of a mirror, and Enjolras watches as Grantaire moves to demonstrate. “It’s just a jab-“ he says, going through the movements deliberately slow. “-and then a right cross,” he finishes. “So it’s 1-2, 1-2, 1-2,” he says as he punches the air, demonstrating the combination three times through for Enjolras to observe. Grantaire’s punches are thrown with intense force and impressive control, and it’s actually a little intimidating. As for himself, well, Enjolras doubts his 1-2 is going to be nearly as threatening.

“You’re up,” Grantaire says happily then, and Enjolras reluctantly moves into his stance. He takes a deep breath and throws the best 1-2 he can muster. 

If Grantaire’s face is anything to go by, Enjolras was correct in his assumption.

“Are you laughing at me?” Enjolras asks, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

“No, I’m not, I’m not!” Grantaire says through laughs, reaching out and placing both hands on Enjolras’s crossed arms. He seemed to catch himself a second later, pulling his hands away quickly and running them through his hair. “I’m sorry, it’s just - you tried so hard and it was kind of cute.” 

“Cute?! I’m not cute!” Enjolras stomps his foot a little in protest before he realizes that probably isn’t helping his argument. 

“Ha! I beg to differ,” Grantaire says. “Now, let’s do that a hundred more times.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos greatly appreciated :)


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras gets a black eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it hasn’t already been glaringly obvious, I know next to nothing about boxing. Everything I’ve written here is based on few half-assed google searches and my own guess work. It’s probably pretty inaccurate but we all know why we’re really here so.
> 
> Also I probably should proofread this a few more times but ce la vie

Six weeks into Enjolras’s lessons, Grantaire gives him a black eye.

What’s worse is that just before they’d gotten in the ring that day, Enjolras had been begging Grantaire to stop going easy on him.

“Come on, R,” he’d pouted, nudging Grantaire’s shoulder with his gloved fist. Grantaire was pulling on his headgear, using the strap to tighten it around his skull. He’d already assisted Enjolras with his headgear and gloves, and Enjolras had to try to stay calm as Grantaire adjusted his chin strap, their faces impossibly close.

“It’s not like I’ve been going _that_ easy on you, Enj,” Grantaire answered as he stuffed his pre-wrapped hands into his gloves. “I’m matching the skill level I feel like you should be at by now.” 

Enjolras doesn’t answer - can’t, really, because that’s a good response and makes a lot of sense - so instead, he just groans and ducks under the ropes. He hears Grantaire chuckle as he follows close behind him.

They start sparring normally, Enjolras well-aware of Grantaire dumbing down his abilities to “match his skill level.” 

It should come as a surprise to no one that Enjolras is competitive. And a bit of a perfectionist. What can he say? Enjolras likes to be good at things. He likes to be right. And he likes those things because he knows he works his ass off for them. He wins debates because he reads and studies endlessly. He knows how to play the violin fairly well because he’d done little else than practice for the better part of a month after Courfeyrac had claimed he didn’t have a musical bone in his body. He’d learned how to knit from Jehan, and he was already following complicated patterns by the second day, so he got bored quickly and moved onto the next endeavor. Athletics, however, had always stumped him. That is, seemingly, until now. Until he had Grantaire as an instructor. Therefore, since Enjolras has now developed a passable level of boxing skills, he’s eager to prove himself once again. 

So, simply _accepting_ Grantaire’s merciful gesture went against everything Enjolras stood for.

“Come on, is that all you got?!” Enjolras says, then, and Grantaire freezes in place. A second later, they both burst into fits of laughter. 

“Was...was that supposed to be smack talk?” Grantaire asks.

“Shut up and fight me,” Enjolras says instead of answering, trying to keep himself from smiling. Giggling like a schoolgirl does not bode well for the tough guy persona he’s trying to cultivate.

Grantaire does, for his part. He simply chuckles under his breath and goes back to sparring, moving quicker than he’d been moving before, becoming even lighter on his feet than Enjolras thought possible.

Grantaire throws a right hook, connecting with the side of Enjolras’s head, the force causing his head to snap to his right, chin meeting shoulder. They’re sparring, which means Grantaire is using maybe a fourth of his typical power behind his hits, so it doesn’t hurt, but it’s disorienting enough that he fails to block the subsequent southpaw uppercut Grantaire lands lightly on his chin.

“Hands up,” Grantaire says like he always does, blocking his own face with his forearms to demonstrate. Enjolras rolls his eyes and takes the opportunity to throw a few uppercuts at Grantaire’s then-unprotected stomach. Grantaire curses and dances away before Enjolras can land very many hits, but no matter - Enjolras can tell he’d taken Grantaire by surprise with that move, and that is certainly enough for him to swell with pride.

He hopes Grantaire doesn’t notice.

“You’re worrying too much about offense,” Grantaire says then, his mouth quirked slightly. His wild curls are spilling over the opening at the top of his headgear, and Enjolras isn’t sure why he’s noticing something like that in the middle of a sparring session, but he is. Just like he’s noticing the sheen of sweat that causes Grantaire’s shirtless body to shine distractingly under the gym’s fluorescents.

Because that’s something that happens now - Grantaire pulling his shirt off and practicing bare-chested as he had been the first day Enjolras showed up. Enjolras isn’t sure when Grantaire decided that they were on the level of half-nakedness, but he finds he doesn’t mind.

Enjolras realizes then that he should probably focus on the match rather than Grantaire’s abs, but his brain seems to cooperate a split second too late, and the next thing Enjolras knows is Grantaire’s gloved-fist is colliding with his face. Hard. And then, blackness.

When Enjolras comes to what he assumes is only seconds later, he’s lying flat on his back in the ring. 

“ _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,”_ someone is saying above him. At least, that’s what Enjolras thinks the voice is saying - it sounds very far away. That, or his head may be underwater. He blinks his eyes open blearily to test this theory, and his vision eventually adjusts to see Grantaire’s worried face leaning over him.

 _God, he’s pretty_ , is the first and only thought Enjolras seems able to form at that moment. And really, Enjolras can’t be held responsible for what comes out of his mouth next, not when he’s just been knocked-out and Grantaire’s face looks like _that_ and-

“I’m attracted to you,” Enjolras blurts before he can stop himself. He pauses awkwardly before continuing, “I thought you should know.”

Grantaire’s lip twitches into an almost-smile before his face changes back into one of total alarm. “Oh god, he’s delusional,” Grantaire says, looking up from Enjolras’s face. “We need to get him to a hospital.”

“Damn,” Bahorel says, and it’s the first time Enjolras notices he’s there as well, leaning over him across from Grantaire. Instead of worry, though, Bahorel’s face is one of mild curiosity. “Was that a southpaw KO? Impressive.” 

“Baz, I swear to god-”

“Fine, fine,” he laughs goodnaturedly. “Enj, think you can stand up?”

“I can carry you,” Grantaire hastens to reply, that panicked face from earlier returning. He searches Enjolras’s face, his brow furrowed. 

“No, I’m fine, really,” Enjolras says as he makes to stand, and his head starts swimming again. So, maybe Enjolras isn’t fine, but there was absolutely zero chance he was going to allow Grantaire to _pick him up_ and _carry him._ This whole ordeal is mortifying enough, he thinks. 

Bahorel and Grantaire both reach out to steady Enjolras once he does stand, and Grantaire snakes his arm around Enjolras’s waist for support.

“I got him,” he says to Bahorel in a tone that did not allow for argument. He keeps his eyes glued to Enjolras’s face, as if watching for any slight change or twitch that would tell him Enjolras is near-death.

Bahorel nods, releasing Enjolras’s arm, and says, “I’ll pull up the car.”

Once he’s gone, Grantaire turns to stand toe-to-toe with Enjolras, gripping him by the hips to peer at his swelling eye. “Can you see?” he asks.

“Yes, R, I can see,” Enjolras replies, rolling his eyes before thinking better of it.

“Don’t do that!” Grantaire balks when he notices Enjolras wince slightly at the movement.

“Grantaire, _I’m fine,”_ Enjolras says, even though his head is throbbing and his eye feels like it’s going to be swelled shut tomorrow. At any rate, Enjolras is worrying a lot less about his eye and a lot more about the fact that Grantaire is still holding onto his hips.

“Don’t worry, we’re getting you to a hospital,” Grantaire says by way of reply. “Here, let me,” he adds, reaching up to unfasten Enjolras’s headgear. He pulls it gently from Enjolras’s head, and he can only imagine what his sweaty, messy hair must look like. He pulls off Enjolras’s gloves next, and then his own headgear, having apparently ditched his gloves the second Enjolras went down.

“Hey guys, Bahorel is out front,” another boxer whose name Enjolras can’t remember informs them, nodding his head toward the gym’s entrance. Enjolras feels Grantaire’s hand rest warm and heady against his lower back, and he lets Grantaire lead him out the door and into the backseat of what he assumes is Bahorel’s Jeep.

To his surprise, Grantaire crawls in next to him.

“You don’t have to sit back here w-” he starts to say but Grantaire shushes him.

“Give me your hand,” Grantaire says as Bahorel makes his way out of the gym’s parking lot. Enjolras does as he’s told and Grantaire starts undoing the wrap that’s wound tight around his hand and fingers. His own hands are still wrapped, so it takes him longer than it probably should have to finish unwrapping both of Enjolras’s.

Meanwhile, Enjolras tries to keep his shit together but all he can think is _oh god, not the hand thing again,_ and Grantaire keeps flicking his eyes to Enjolras’s face every few seconds, as if his injuries are going to drastically worsen if he looks away for too long, and it’s all mildly uncomfortable but something about it still sends a thrill down Enjolras’s spine.

His eyes meet Bahorel’s in the rearview mirror and he winks. Enjolras doesn’t have the energy to decipher what _that_ could possibly mean. 

  
  


“The good news is nothing is fractured. You have a minor concussion and there will be bruising and swelling for a few days, but other than that you’re fine. We’re just waiting on discharge papers now,” Enjolras’s doctor informs him a while later. He barely hears her, because all he can think about is how _angry_ Grantaire had been when he wasn’t allowed to follow Enjolras to the exam room.

“He’s my-!” Grantaire stopped himself. Started again, “He’s my friend. I don’t think he should be alone.”

It seemed Grantaire was painfully aware that Enjolras could both hear what he’s saying and see him saying it, if the slight blush that crept up his neck was anything to go by. Enjolras certainly didn’t know what to make of _that_ either.

“Sir, we only allow immediately family and emergency contacts into the patient’s room during the examination. I assure you, your friend is in excellent hands, and we will update you as soon as we can,” the nurse had replied, her tone polite if not a little impatient.

Grantaire looked like he wanted to argue again, but Enjolras interrupted him, said, “R.”

Grantaire’s eyes flickered to Enjolras, and he searched his face for a few moments before nodding and planting himself in the seat next to Bahorel.

Now, Enjolras is feeling just as anxious for Grantaire’s company. “Can my friends come back here now?” he asks the doctor before she leaves the room. 

“Just one. I’ll send a nurse,” she answers.

“Thank you. His name is Grantaire,” Enjolras tells her, knowing Bahorel won’t mind. Besides, it honestly wouldn’t surprise him if he had left already. 

The doctor leaves the room, and about five minutes later, Enjolras catches sight of some familiar curls coming around the corner. For some reason, it makes him sit up straighter in the bed.

When Grantaire sees him, he just stands in the doorway for a few silent moments. Enjolras smiles at him. 

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Grantaire repeats. 

“You can come in, you know,” he says then, patting the bed in front of him. Enjolras watches Grantaire’s expression turned pained, so he amends himself quickly and says, “You don’t have to sit on the bed if you don’t want.”

“I want,” Grantaire says immediately, catching himself a moment later. His cheeks start turning a lovely shade of pink that Enjolras would like to see more of. “I mean, uh, it’s fine.” Enjolras is silent as Grantaire makes his way over to the bed and perches himself on the edge. Grantaire is facing the wall, but Enjolras is sitting cross legged, trying not to stare at the side of Grantaire’s head. He fails, and his eyes roam involuntarily over each curve of his face, the proud arch of his nose, the thickness of his dark brows. Enjolras finds himself practically swooning over his damn ear. _Shit,_ he thinks. _This is bad._

“I know I told you not to go easy on me but...geez…” Enjolras jokes, which is apparently not the right thing to say because Grantaire balks, and the floodgates open. 

“Enj, I’m so sorry,” Grantaire says as if he could no longer hold it in. “I’ve been going over and over in my head how it happened - I mean, you must have shifted at the worst time, not that it’s your fault of course! And -”

“R,” Enjolras interrupts, lightly resting his fingers against Grantaire’s thigh - it is the first time either of them have touched one another outside of the context of Enjolras’s lessons. It feels exhilarating. “It’s okay. We were boxing. It was bound to happen eventually.”

“E, you have a _concussion!_ ” Grantaire sputters, as if he finds Enjolras’s lack of anger towards him unimaginable. For the first time, Enjolras wonders what kind of impression he may be making on Grantaire. He realizes, suddenly, that he actually has no idea how Grantaire feels about him. _Are they friends? Does he even_ like _him?_ Enjolras feels a little sick, from the concussion or that line of questioning is anyone’s guess.

“And how many concussions have you had?” he asks, raising an unimpressed brow, refusing to allow his brain to spiral into whatever horror show those thoughts were turning out to be. 

“That’s - that’s not the point,” Grantaire says. 

“Grantaire, please. Do not turn this into something it isn’t, okay? It’s fine. I’m fine. Black eyes are a hazard of the sport. Lord knows I’ve seen you and Bahorel sporting them on more than one occasion,” Enjolras says, and he thinks he sees Grantaire relax, just a little. “Besides,” he continues, “is it weird that it feels kind of like a badge of honor?”

That earns him a surprised chuckle, and then Grantaire is smiling at Enjolras in a way he forces himself not to analyze too closely. “You wear it well,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire repeats. He nods toward Enjolras, and for some reason he knows exactly what he’s asking. _Permission to touch_.

Enjolras simply nods, not trusting himself to form real words at the moment. Grantaire appears to steel himself before scooting closer to Enjolras on the bed. He leans in until their faces are mere inches apart and surveys the damage. Enjolras’s heart pounds in his chest.

“It doesn’t look too bad, actually,” Grantaire mutters, almost to himself. His breath is warm against Enjolras’s face, and he smells vaguely like cinnamon gum and sweat. Grantaire runs a feather-light finger over his eyebrow and down the side of his face, and Enjolras stops breathing all together. “Look up for me?” he asks, his voice just barely above a whisper. Enjolras does as he’s told, at this point wholly unable to form any rational or helpful thoughts with Grantaire so close. “Hm, no petechial hemorrhaging in your eye. That’s good,” he says. Enjolras is aware that this is unnecessary - aware that he’s just been examined by actual, licensed medical professionals and that surely Grantaire can’t offer any additional information he wasn’t already given, and yet, inspecting the injury himself seems to be helping Grantaire feel better. Which, for some reason, is all Enjolras seems to care about at the moment - his own concussion be damned. Grantaire runs his finger down the side of Enjolras’s nose, and asks, “Does that hurt?” 

Before Enjolras can respond, his body does for him - a sudden chill moving through him like a wave, causing him to shudder a little under Grantaire’s touch. “Shit,” Grantaire says suddenly, pulling his hand away and creating a now-insurmountable distance between them in two seconds flat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It didn’t hurt!” Enjolras answers, wanting more than anything for Grantaire to come back, to keep trailing his fingers over every inch of Enjolras’s skin and, maybe this is becoming a problem. “Really, it was just a cold chill.”

“Where the fuck is he?!” a sudden voice rings out, effectively bursting whatever alternate reality the two of them had entered moments ago. Before either of them can respond, Combeferre has Grantaire shoved against the nearest wall, his fists twisted into his shirt.

“What the fuck?!” Enjolras yells, his brain taking a second to adjust to the sudden influx of movement and faces and noises. His eyes manage to settle on Courfeyrac. “Courf?!” he says, hoping it’s enough to encompass all that he needs it to.

“Bahorel said Grantaire gave you a black eye!” Courfeyrac says, coming to stand near Enjolras. He starts fussing with his hair, and Enjolras bats his hands away. 

“Not on purpose!” Enjolras replies, and Combeferre releases his hold on Grantaire somewhat.

“Wait, what?” Combeferre asks, looking between Enjolras and Grantaire before settling on Bahorel questioningly. 

“I’m sorry!” Bahorel laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “I just kind of wanted to see Combeferre kick R’s ass.”

“Thanks, Baz,” Grantaire says from where he’s still being held against the wall. “Seriously. Real helpful.”

“What do you mean ‘not on purpose’?” Courfeyrac asks, still sounding worried.

“Grantaire has been giving me boxing lessons,” Enjolras says, like it’s a confession. He isn’t sure why he’s wanted to keep this under wraps for this long, but now that it’s out, he feels anxious. A not-so-small part of him is afraid of things between him and Grantaire changing now that their friends know - even if he isn’t sure what this ‘thing’ actually is to begin with.

His thoughts are a mess so he avoids looking at Grantaire after that, but Enjolras can feel his gaze burning into the side of his face. “And, Ferre - could you?” he asks eventually, gesturing to Grantaire. 

Combeferre releases him immediately with a gruff, “Sorry.”

“No worries, man,” Grantaire answers with a shrug. “You came in here fucking _ready,_ I respect that.”

There’s a pause, as Combeferre doesn’t seem to know what to do with that compliment.

“Wait, what?!” Courfeyrac says then, filling the silence. “You’re taking boxing lessons?! Oh my god, that’s so Sporty Spice of you! I always saw you as more of a Posh but...”

“How did you even find out about this?” Enjolras asks, interrupting what will quickly become a lengthy monologue if Courfeyrac has anything to say about it.

“I’m your emergency contact,” Combeferre says.

“Oh,” is all Enjolras can think to say.

“Oh,” Grantaire repeats.

Enjolras sighs. 

Yeah, he isn’t even going to _try_ to interpret _that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m also aware they should be wearing mouth guards but idc I wanted them to be able to talk:)
> 
> Pleased leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed!!


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has a motorcycle and Enjolras pines

After the black-eye incident, things are different.

For one, Enjolras is medically forbidden from boxing for at least 10 days. 

Something heavy and bitter had settled in his stomach when the doctor gave that particular discharge instruction. The thought of having to go ten whole days without seeing Grantaire was enough to make Enjolras’s mood deflate much quicker than a punch to the face ever could. 

He needn’t worry, however, because Grantaire had called Enjolras every single day for those ten days. It started as Grantaire wanting updates on Enjolras’s condition, asking questions about his pain and swelling. They couldn’t text for the first few days, due to more doctor’s orders - this time to avoid screens - but even after it was safe to do so, the two of them kept up their nightly phone calls. What began as fifteen minute check-ups turned into three hour long conversations, Enjolras falling harder and harder with each passing minute. Because, as expected, Grantaire is unbelievably lovely and full of surprises.

On the third night, Grantaire had Enjolras laughing harder than he could ever remember laughing, further proof of this being Combeferre coming to check on his well-being, citing the fact that Enjolras sounded like a dying whale. This only made the two of them laugh harder. 

On the fifth night, Enjolras and Grantaire debated everything from consumer responsibility in the struggle against climate change to whether waffles or pancakes were the superior breakfast food. (Hint: It’s waffles.) Enjolras was both thrilled and a little turned on to discover just how well-read Grantaire is, how his arguments forced Enjolras to think on his feet, rethink concepts he’d long since felt sure of.

On the seventh night, Enjolras read that concussion recovery time was actually 7-10 days, and therefore, spent the next thirty minutes presenting his pitch for why he should be allowed back in the gym early. Grantaire had simply laughed, commended Enjolras on his effort, and said, _Not a chance._

The night before, Enjolras had fallen asleep to the sound of Grantaire’s voice. 

The morning of day ten happens to fall on the same day as Les Amis Sunday Brunch, something the group tries to do at least once a month. They’re at their usual haunt - the Musain - and today, Enjolras is sitting with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, chatting idly about how many signatures were still needed for their latest petition and whether or not they thought Courfeyrac should get a haircut. Courfeyrac was in the process of showing Enjolras and Combeferre a picture of the undercut he’s contemplating when, to Enjolras’s surprise and delight, Grantaire walks in with Joly and Bossuet. His eyes meet Enjolras’s as he steps through the doorway, and he lifts his chin in greeting, his tell-tale smirk that makes Enjolras’s ears turn pink firmly in place. Enjolras returns the gesture with a small wave, and Courfeyrac snorts next to him. 

“What?” Enjolras asks, turning his attention from the way Grantaire is standing in front of the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he studies the menu. He’s wearing some band t-shirt, and it’s hugging impossibly tight to his arms and chest. 

“You've got it bad,” Courfeyrac replies with a grin, and Enjolras doesn’t notice the way Combeferre’s lips quirk behind his coffee mug. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Enjolras replies, feeling a blush creep up his neck. 

“I’m talking about how you want Grantaire to hold you down with his huge muscles and fu-”

“R!” Enjolras practically yells, trying to drown out Courfeyrac’s words as Grantaire makes his way over to their table. The man jumps slightly at Enjolras’s volume but otherwise says nothing. Enjolras is immensely grateful.

“Hey Enj,” Grantaire says, his gorgeous mouth curling into a smile. “Hey guys,” he adds, nodding at both Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who mutter their hellos. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras can see Courfeyrac looking excitedly between the two of them, his eyes darting back and forth, as he rests his chin against his fists. As subtle as possible, Enjolras kicks him under the table. “Are we hitting the gym today?”

“Uh what?” Enjolras replies.

“I just thought - you know - you’d want to get in there since it’s been ten days now,” Grantaire answers, and Enjolras’s brain finally starts working long enough to realize what he means. _His concussion._

“Oh,” Enjolras says, shaking his head slightly. “Of course, it has been ten days, hasn’t it? I don’t know how I forgot.”

“Me neither,” Grantaire snorts. “To be honest, I was expecting a call at 5am this morning since you practically begged me to let you back in after only a week…”

Courfeyrac’s gaze snaps to Enjolras, eagerly awaiting his reply, his mouth pulled into a ridiculous grin. 

Enjolras feels himself blush an even deeper red. He is going to _kill_ Courfeyrac. “Are you free now?” he chokes out, pointedly ignoring the tremor in his voice and Courfeyrac’s apparent delight in it.

“Sure,” Grantaire says easily, shrugging his shoulders - the picture of cool.

 _That’s because he doesn’t have a giant, stupid crush on you,_ Enjolras tells himself bitterly. “Great! Let’s go!” is what Enjolras says out loud. 

He scrambles up from his seat before Courfeyrac can make any more wayward comments, tugging on Grantaire’s forearm and practically running to the door. 

Once outside, Enjolras releases his grip on Grantaire, who raises his eyebrows questioningly. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” he asks, laughter coloring his voice as he hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the door they’d just exited.

Enjolras waves his hand dismissively and mumbles something about Courfeyrac’s imagination. If Grantaire finds Enjolras’s behavior odd, he doesn’t comment. 

“Right. So where’d you park?” Grantaire asks.

“I rode with Ferre and Courf,” Enjolras says, furrowing his brow. “Did you not drive?” 

Grantaire smiles, rubs a rough hand against the back of his neck, and says, “I did. But I’m on the bike.”

“The bike?” Enjolras asks dumbly. Grantaire turns his head, nodding at the motorcycle across the street. “Oh.” _More surprises._

“Have you ever ridden one before?” Enjolras shakes his head, eyes remaining fixed warily on the gleaming chrome. “Do you want to?”

Enjolras finally turns his gaze back to Grantaire, who is ducking his head and trying to hide a smile. _God,_ he is _devastatingly_ handsome _._ “Um.”

“Look, your place is right around the corner, right? We can ride there, and then take your car to the gym. You’ll need to change and get your gloves, anyway.”

“Okay,” Enjolras finds himself saying and is rewarded with Grantaire’s whole face lighting up as if he’d given Grantaire a special treat. It’s kind of adorable.

The two walk across the street to the bike, and Grantaire pulls an extra helmet from somewhere. He lowers the helmet down onto Enjolras’s head, adjusting it for him in a way that reminds Enjolras of the way Grantaire always helps with his headgear at the gym. 

“Does it feel okay?” Grantaire asks then, and he doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s reaching out to pull strands of Enjolras’s hair from his eyes, tucking them more comfortably out of the way under the helmet’s padding. Enjolras’s brain short-circuits, and he feels his eyelids flutter closed at the feeling of Grantaire's fingertips doing such delicate work against his skin. When he opens his eyes again, Grantaire is looking at him, and if Enjolras didn’t know any better he’d swear his eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide. They lock eyes for a few breaths, and it’s Grantaire who snaps out of it first, clearing his throat and pulling himself to his full height so his face is no longer inches away from Enjolras’s. “Okay?” he repeats and Enjolras has to swallow hard before answering.

“It’s perfect,” he says, and _why_ must he always become so weirdly intense around Grantaire? Why couldn’t he have been normal and just said something like... _yes?_

For his part, Grantaire merely chuckles as he tugs his own helmet on, hiding those unruly curls. Then, in one swift motion, he slings his right leg over until he’s straddling the motorcycle. He turns to look at Enjolras expectantly.

“Okay, put your foot there and then swing your leg over,” Grantaire says, pointing down at a small peg sticking out the side of the bike. Something must show on Enjolras’s face because after a moment, he adds, “Come on. You got it. Just grab onto my shoulders.”

Enjolras does as he’s told, and thankfully, is able to settle down behind the other man with no trouble. Though, suddenly, at the feeling of his body flush with Grantaire’s back, Enjolras realizes this was a terrible, terrible idea. 

The motorcycle roars to life underneath them, and Enjolras has a white-knuckle grip on his own knees. He’s focusing hard on keeping his breathing steady, unsure if his rapid heart rate is due to fear or the feeling of his thighs pressed against Grantaire’s. 

“Enj?” Grantaire says, turning his head slightly. It’s a little hard to hear him over the bike’s loud engine, and their helmets bump against one another when Enjolras leans forward. “You’re gonna want to hold onto me.”

“What?!” Enjolras replies instinctually, even though he heard Grantaire plain as day. The thought of even more contact between his and Grantaire’s bodies is enough to make Enjolras dizzy with equal parts excitement and terror. 

Grantaire - calm, collected Grantaire - doesn’t reply, grabbing onto Enjolras’s hand instead and moving it from its position on his knee to rest against his own torso. Enjolras’s stomach swoops at that, and he doesn’t bother holding back the grin his helmet as he moves his left hand to join the other against Grantaire’s chest, relishing in the heat of his skin through the thin t-shirt he’s wearing.

Grantaire slowly maneuvers the motorcycle out of the parking lot and then, they’re _flying_. 

All things considered, they’re probably not going that fast - being on a residential street and all - but it _feels_ that way to Enjolras as the two of them coast along the familiar roads, the wind whipping by them almost frantically.

Enjolras squeezes Grantaire tighter as they turn a particularly sharp corner, and he hears Grantaire’s muffled laughter before he realizes he’s laughing too. As they slow down with traffic, Grantaire reaches down and rests his hand on Enjolras’s leg, rubbing his thumb back and forth comfortingly. It’s over as quickly as it began, Grantaire reaching for the handlebar, as the cars disperse and Grantaire picks up speed once again.

As the two of them cruise through their town, Enjolras holds tight and thinks about the warm, wonderful man against him. It comes as a surprise, even to him, to realize just how much he trusts Grantaire. Trusts him enough to climb onto the back of his motorcycle, trusts him enough to let Grantaire throw punches at him, trusts him enough to open his silly heart and let the other man crawl inside. One of the things Enjolras loves about Grantaire is that he never tries to be someone he isn’t, and he doesn’t accept less than you being 100% authentic with him in return. It’s a relief, he thinks, to be around someone like that, someone who has no expectations, no ulterior motives, no pretense. Grantaire exists in a way that says, _take me as I am,_ and more and more, Enjolras finds himself wanting little else.

Too soon, Grantaire is slowing to a stop in front of Enjolras’s apartment building, cutting the engine and pulling off his helmet. Enjolras does the same as Grantaire swings himself off the bike, reaching out immediately to help Enjolras dismount. Grantaire places a soft hand on the side of Enjolras’s face for a few seconds, ducking down to get a good look at him. “So?” he prompts, squinting a little in the sunlight. Enjolras is momentarily distracted by his scrunched up nose. “What’d you think?”

Enjolras feels a little light on his feet, disoriented from the ride, but it’s a good feeling - exciting and new. He returns Grantaire’s hesitant smile, and the other man visibly relaxes. “That was...really fun, actually,” Enjolras answers, biting his lip. “I’m going to get my stuff. Do you..?” Enjolras trails off, nodding his head toward his apartment building behind him.

“I’m just going to stay out here and have a smoke,” Grantaire replies, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. 

“Okay,” Enjolras answers, starting to walk backwards. “I’ll make it quick!” He turns around and takes off for the door, Grantaire chuckling behind him.

“Take your time!” he laughs. “I have all day!”

And while Enjolras appreciates this gesture, he is still in and out of his apartment before Grantaire can even finish his cigarette.

“Jeez,” Grantaire says, upon seeing Enjolras coming down the stairs, now in clothes for the gym and a backpack thrown over his shoulder. “Do you have super powers or something?”

“I’ll never tell,” Enjolras says, and he thinks maybe they’re flirting but he isn’t sure. He momentarily wishes Courfeyrac were here to offer his opinion. Grantaire simply laughs in return, dropping his cigarette and stepping on it with the toe of his shoe. Enjolras watches this, aching to reach out and touch Grantaire where he stands, his skin sunkissed and a little shiny from the summer heat. He’s pulled his hair back with a bandana, and Enjolras once again can’t believe how _hot_ he is.

Grantaire interrupts Enjolras’s staring to ask, “Ready?” Enjolras glances at his car and then back at Grantaire, who looks confused. “What is it?”

Enjolras, remembering how it felt to be pressed against Grantaire on the bike, to wrap his arms around his body, can’t help the next words out of his mouth. “Can we take the bike?”

The replying grin this earns him is blinding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more part to go! Thanks so much for reading <3 comments and kudos so appreciated!


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire invites Enjolras to his boxing tournament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Sorry this has taken me so long to update. Thank you for sticking around!
> 
> So this was supposed to be the final part, but the story wasn't ready to end. There will be one more part and I already have a good chunk of it written, so be looking for that soon!
> 
> CW for mentions of blood and injury. Nothing really "gory", but it's definitely discussed in some detail.

In the weeks that follow, Enjolras and Grantaire spend almost all of their free time in the gym together. He doesn’t know if it’s the endorphins from exercising so much or the inherent stress-relief that comes from punching things as hard as you can, but Enjolras is happier than he can ever remember being.

“Are you sure this doesn’t have anything to do with a certain young, strapping boxing instructor?” Courfeyrac had asked of his new-found cheerfulness when Enjolras returned to their apartment after a particularly good session with Grantaire, a huge grin spread across his face.

Enjolras dropped his gym bag on the ground, removing his gloves from around his neck and adding them to the pile as well. He was sweaty and tired in the best way, and all he wanted was to take a long shower and go to sleep. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Enjolras had replied, rolling his eyes at his friend, who simply smirked in response. Enjolras was pretty sure his giant crush on Grantaire was glaringly obvious to everyone save the man himself, but that didn’t mean he was going to give into Courfeyrac’s prying. 

Because the truth is, Enjolras likes Grantaire more than he cares to admit. Over the nearly three months that they’d been training together, Grantaire has become an integral part of Enjolras’s life. He spends more time with the dark-haired boxer than almost anyone else in his friend group, and the craziest part is that Enjolras isn’t tired of him yet.

Enjolras is independent to a fault and an introvert by nature. He loves spending time with his friends, but he needs alone time to recharge. Grantaire seems to be the only exception to this rule. Even after spending hours in the gym sparring and training with him, Enjolras still finds himself wanting to text Grantaire the minute he gets home. He lets himself, sometimes, and Grantaire always answers within a few minutes so it doesn’t seem to annoy the other man, at least. 

Less often, Grantaire will text him within the hour after they’ve separated, and Enjolras’s foolish heart will do a cartwheel when his name appears on his phone screen. Like now, for instance.

**R: Man you definitely made me work for it today. I’m beat!**

Enjolras smiles at the compliment, and before he can reply, Grantaire is sending another message. 

**R: You really are doing great, E. May not need me much longer ;)**

Enjolras’s mind and body have conflicting feelings about that message - his stomach swoops ridiculously at that fact that Grantaire sent a winky face, but sirens go off in his head at that last sentence. _Was Grantaire getting tired of him? Does he want to stop their training sessions and is too nice to say so?_

“You’ve just gone from grinning like mad at your phone to scowling at it in like five seconds flat,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras looks up, startled, having forgotten his roommate was sitting there. “Care to share with the class?”

“It’s just R,” Enjolras says immediately.

“ _Just R,_ huh?” Courfeyrac asks, his eyes sparkling and his mouth curling into a entirely-too-pleased smile. “And what does _Just R_ have to say?”

Enjolras looks at his friend for a moment, biting his lip. Courfeyrac may love joking around and giving Enjolras a hard time, but he’s also one of Enjolras’s best friends. If Enjolras needs him to be serious, he will be.

“I don’t think he wants to train me anymore,” Enjolras says, his voice sounding pathetically sad even to his own ears. His disappointment must be obvious to Courfeyrac as well, because his friend frowns a little, his brows pulling together.

“Why do you say that?” he asks, and Enjolras silently hands his phone to him so Courfeyrac can read the messages. Courfeyrac scans through the messages quickly before he’s smiling again and saying, “Enj, I don’t think he’s serious about that.” Enjolras huffs disbelievingly. “In fact, I think he’s flirting with you.”

Enjolras chokes a little in shock. “What on Earth makes you say that?” he asks. 

“I’m just really good at this kind of thing, E. You know that,” Courfeyrac says, as if the answer was obvious. “And also, because he just asked you out.”

“He _what?_ ” Enjolras demands, snatching the phone from his friend’s hand. Sure enough, Grantaire had just sent a third message.

**R: You busy this weekend?**

Enjolras’s heart starts racing at that, and he’s acutely aware of Courfeyrac watching his every move, so he simply retreats into his bedroom and shuts the door behind him, his roommate protesting the whole way. He plops down on his bed, and he knows he’s still kind of gross and sweaty and really shouldn't be on his bed in his gym clothes, but he’s too preoccupied by Grantaire to worry about that at the moment.

**Me: Not really. What did you have in mind?**

Luckily, Grantaire texts back almost immediately, or else Enjolras would have lied there obsessing over his reply like the hopeless fool he is. 

**R: I have a tournament this weekend. Thought you might be interested in seeing the real deal?**

There was a zero percent possibility that Enjolras would turn him down. 

**Me: I’d love to.**

_FLIRT, DAMMIT!_ Enjolras scolds himself and quickly types out another message. 

**Me: You talk a big game. We’ll see if you have the follow-through ;)**

There. He sent a winky face too. Hopefully, Grantaire gets the message. 

**R: Well then...I sincerely hope I don’t disappoint**

_Yeah_ , Enjolras thinks. _Like that could ever happen._

  
  


The following Saturday, Enjolras finds himself paying his way into the convention center downtown, the whole place teeming with excitement and anticipatory energy. He can already hear a crowd of people roaring in the main event area, multiple matches already going on in each of the three rings that have been set up.

He spots Grantaire immediately and his heart stops.

He’s leaning against one corner of the ring closest to where Enjolras is currently standing, and he’s shirtless - wearing boxing shorts, shoes, and gloves in all black. A man Enjolras has never seen before is standing behind him, putting a cool towel around Grantaire’s neck and speaking in his ear. Grantaire is nodding along to whatever his apparent-trainer is saying, and Enjolras can’t tear his eyes away long enough to find a seat because Grantaire is bleeding.

Like, _really_ bleeding. 

There is a cut above his left eyebrow, a small amount of blood seeping from it and threatening to run into his eye. His lip is also busted on one side, and this cut is bleeding profusely, bright red streaks running all the way down his jaw and neck. 

Enjolras makes his feet work long enough to walk a little closer to the ring, and Grantaire turns at just the right time to make eye contact with him and then he’s grinning wildly around his mouthguard. Enjolras feels his pounding heart settle into something more natural at that - blood or no blood, Grantaire is clearly having a blast.

Enjolras gives him a little wave, and then Grantaire is returning his attention to the match, just as a bell rings and the next round begins. Enjolras finds a seat, and proceeds to chew his lip shreds as he watches Grantaire in the ring.

Like always, he’s unbelievably light on his feet, and Enjolras can tell his opponent is having trouble with this fact, his hits not quite landing with their desired intensity as Grantaire dances just out of reach. Enjolras notices almost immediately that Grantaire’s opponent has a high guard stance, meaning he protects mostly his face and leaves his torso open, which is good for Grantaire. Enjolras knows from experience that Grantaire is no stranger to strategic and devastating body shots.

Sure enough, Grantaire sets himself up with a lead hook to the head, causing his opponent to bring up his guard, leaving his body exposed for Grantaire to land another, particularly nasty-looking lead hook to his liver. His opponent staggers to the side, doubled over a bit, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to move in close range and throw several rapid right hooks, connecting to the side of his opponent’s face. 

The referee steps in then, pushing a forearm into Grantaire’s chest and the man in question retreats at the warning. _Probably a holding foul,_ Enjolras thinks. Grantaire doesn’t seem deterred, however, he simply dances in place a little, rolling his shoulders out as the ref checks in with the other fighter. Grantaire looks hyped, his eyes dark and focused, his muscles taut under his skin, and Enjolras swallows thickly, trying to ignore the feeling the image elicits in him. 

The match continues on after that, Enjolras enthralled the entire time. Grantaire is truly a sight to behold, and while he certainly takes a few hits that make Enjolras cringe and wince on his behalf, it’s clear he’s going to win.

Sure enough, the final bell rings and the match ends, and Grantaire is named the winner in a Unanimous Decision. The crowd goes wild as the referee lifts Grantaire’s right hand in the air, signaling his victory, and Enjolras is right there with them - cheering as loud as he can, his face hurting from smiling so wide.

Enjolras is hanging around awkwardly some time later, not sure if he’s supposed to wait for Grantaire or not, when the man who he presumes is Grantaire’s trainer walks over to him.

“Hey, you Enjolras?” the man asks, and Enjolras nods. “Follow me.”

Enjolras does, staying a few paces behind Grantaire’s trainer as he leads him through the convention and into the make-shift locker rooms that have been constructed for the fighters. 

Grantaire is submerged in an ice bath, his arms draped over the side of the tub and his head is tilted backwards, eyes squeezed tight. He’s breathing in and out slowly and deeply, as if trying to concentrate on that and not the freezing cold water against his skin. 

“That’s ten,” the trainer says then, and Grantaire immediately rises from the bath, shivering head to toe. Enjolras is confident he’d reach hypothermic levels if he sat in an ice bath for ten minutes. 

“Thank fuck,” Grantaire groans, and Enjolras is captivated by the water droplets gliding down his bare chest and arms. “Enj! Sweet! Hey!” he says then, apparently just noticing Enjolras’s presence. He steps out of the tub, his boxing shorts now drenched and dripping heavily on the floor, and his trainer is there with a large, fluffy towel. He wraps it around Grantaire and he cozies up inside it, still shaking from the cold. It’s adorable, and Enjolras really doesn’t know how one man can go from looking absolutely terrifying in the ring to such a soft-looking blanket burrito in the span of an hour. “I’m so glad you could make it! What’d you think?” he asks then, his teeth chattering a little as he speaks. 

Enjolras gets a good, up-close look of Grantaire’s face then, and he has to stop himself from outright gawking at the sight. Grantaire’s face is swollen in so many different places, he barely resembles himself anymore and there’s still blood steadily streaming from the various open cuts he’s acquired. 

“You were obviously incredible, R,” Enjolras says. “But _Christ_ , are you okay?” 

Grantaire grins - or at least he tries to grin, but it’s a weird, lopsided thing - and says, “Never better. The adrenaline is still going strong, so it dulls most of the pain. Ask me again tomorrow.”

Enjolras laughs at that, but it turns into a strange, choked off sound as Grantaire turns around and steps out his shorts, giving everyone in the room a nice view of his bare ass for a few seconds before he wraps the towel around his waist.

Grantaire sits down in a chair then, gesturing to one next to him, indicating Enjolras should join him. He does so, and tries desperately to ignore the fact that Grantaire is _naked_ under that towel. A medic, named Eponine as per her nametag, starts dressing his wounds and checking for signs of a concussion or internal injury, as Enjolras, Grantaire, and his trainer - Montparnasse, as he’s eventually introduced - discuss the match, going over what Grantaire did well and where he may have made the wrong move. 

“Bad news, boys,” the medic says, and Grantaire groans instantly. 

“Nooooo…” he whines.

“Sorry, but I’m worried about that eye,” the medic explains, nodding at Grantaire’s right eye that’s swollen shut and angry red in color.

“I’m fine!” Grantaire insists, looking to Montparnasse for support. 

“You heard her,” Montparnasse insists. “Get dressed. We’ll go now.”

Grantaire turns to Enjolras, frowning rather pathetically. “Mom and dad are making me see a real doctor,” he says.

“Hey!” Eponine says, affronted. She grabs a nearby towel and snaps it against Grantaire’s leg, who curses and rubs the afflicted spot.

It feels a little like Enjolras is being let into Grantaire’s world, and he feels a rush of affection for this man in front of him. Enjolras doesn’t think there’s anything about Grantaire that he wouldn’t want to know. 

Everyone around them starts packing up all the gear then, and Grantaire follows Enjolras to the door, the two of them chatting idly until Montparnasse yells at Grantaire _to get dressed, for the last time, fuckin’ hell._

“I’ll see you around?” Grantaire asks then, and he’s standing so close. His face is still swelling, and Enjolras has to swallow down his worry and force a smile.

“Course,” Enjolras replies. “Thanks for inviting me.” They say their goodbyes, and Enjolras turns to leave, before turning back around, unable to stop himself. 

“R?” Grantaire turns around, looking at him expectantly. “Could you...I mean, will you let me know if you’re okay? After you see the doctor?”

The other man looks at him for a long moment, and his expression is impossible to read under the injuries. “I can do that,” he says eventually, and Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief.

  
  


Nearly two weeks later, Enjolras is checking his emails at the Musain, waiting for everyone to arrive for the Les Amis meeting, when Grantaire walks in - his busted lip scabbed over and a light yellow bruise barely visible around his eye.

He jumps out of his chair before he can really think it through and meets Grantaire half way as he heads toward the back room where they held their meetings.

“How are you feeling?” Enjolras asks immediately, too concerned about Grantaire to care about how desperate he sounds. This is the longest he’s gone without seeing Grantaire since they started training together, and he was going out of his mind with worry after Grantaire had to cancel their usual sessions because he was still too banged up from his tournament. 

“Loads better,” Grantaire says with a smile. “Nearly back to normal.”

Enjolras pays no mind to Grantaire’s assurances and instead, inspects his injuries anxiously. Grantaire seems content to let him, and Enjolras is relieved to see his eye is mostly healed, however his lip still looks pretty bad. Before Enjolras can think of what he’s doing, he reaches up and brushes a feather light finger across his bottom lip, stopping before he reaches the gash that’s just starting to scab. It’s a mirror to Grantaire’s soft caresses back when Enjolras was in the hospital, and something flutters in Enjolras’s chest at that.

When Enjolras looks away from his mouth to his eyes, Grantaire is staring at him with an intense expression on his face. Enjolras clears his throat. “Sorry,” he mutters, stepping away from Grantaire so he isn’t so close. “I guess this means we aren’t training today?” he asks, trying not to let the disappointment show in his voice.

Grantaire swallows thickly before answering, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat and Enjolras definitely has to look away from _that._ “Why wouldn’t we?” he asks.

“Shouldn’t you let it heal?” Enjolras wonders, nodding at Grantaire’s lip. 

“Just try not to hit me in the mouth, yeah?” Grantaire says with a wink, bumping his shoulder into Enjolras’s as he moves to take his usual seat.

About two hours later, the meeting is long over, but everyone is still hanging out, drinking coffee and catching up like always. Normally, Enjolras doesn’t mind this. In fact, he’s typically happy to stay and hang out with his friends. Today, however, it’s been two weeks since he’s seen Grantaire. Two weeks since he’s been able to crawl onto the back of his motorcycle and feel his warm body against his own. Two weeks since he’s been able to get into the gym and train with him. Two weeks since he’s had Grantaire’s undivided attention on him for two hours straight. 

All of which is to say, Enjolras misses him. 

And if Enjolras didn’t know any better, he’d say Grantaire’s just as eager to leave and get to the gym as he is, if the weighted looks he keeps shooting Enjolras are anything to go by.

Enjolras is pretending to listen to Jehan regale a story about one of his many, many cats when Grantaire slips into the open chair next to him. 

“Wanna get outta here?” he asks softly, leaning in close enough for Enjolras to smell his cologne.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Enjolras replies, equally quiet.

“Meet me at the bike.” And then Grantaire is standing and loudly making his excuses, hugging everyone bye as they all rib him for being the first to leave. Enjolras feels himself smirk as he grabs his things and sneaks out the side door, everyone too focused on Grantaire to notice his exit. It’s not as if their training sessions are a secret, not since the black eye incident.

It’s just more fun this way.

Enjolras is already sitting on Grantaire’s motorcycle when the other man joins him a few minutes later. “Wanna go punch some stuff?” he asks cheekily, and Enjolras laughs.

“Yes please,” he answers, pulling on what he’s come to refer to as _his_ helmet.

On the way to the gym, Grantaire brushes his thumb against the side of Enjolras’s calf, just as he’d done during their very first ride together, and Enjolras can’t help but think there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments always appreciated <3


	7. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has a shitty day

It goes like this.

Grantaire will slink into the meeting, fifteen minutes late because he doesn't get off work until 5 on Wednesdays, and Enjolras will stutter over his words, every single time because he is utterly gone for the man. Just seeing his messy curls and those oversized clothes and that coy smile is enough to get Enjolras all flustered, no matter how used to his presence he becomes.

And he is becoming used to it. Prior to him training Enjolras, Grantaire wasn’t much of a recurring figure at Les Amis meetings. Now, however, Grantaire attends almost every single one. 

While Enjolras speaks, Grantaire listens, his eyes rarely leaving Enjolras the entire time. It both thrills and terrifies him.

Typically, they argue.

Or they _debate,_ as Grantaire always insists. 

Sometimes, Enjolras will let his frustration get the better of him, and he’ll raise his voice or resort to childish arguments because he’s too worked up to remember his research. Grantaire, however, is always calm, never rude, but instead pokes holes in Enjolras’s arguments with a refined, if not detached, efficiency. It’s beyond maddening and also very sexy. 

Afterwards, they stay and visit with their friends until one of them breaks first, making eye contact with the other that means _let’s get out of here,_ and the two of them will ride Grantaire’s motorcycle to the gym for a session. 

Essentially, Enjolras spends his days fighting with Grantaire one way or another, and he isn’t sure what it says about him that he _loves_ it.

Enjolras is chatting with Combeferre when Grantaire appears behind him, his voice low right next to his ear. “I’ve had a shitty day,” he says, and Enjolras’s heart hurts to hear it. Grantaire _had_ been uncharacteristically quiet that evening. “Let’s go hit some shit.” 

And then he walks away without a response, dipping out the back door before anyone can say goodbye. 

Enjolras looks back to Combeferre, and his friend - bless him - simply waves him off with a smile. 

  
  


“That was some of your best sparring,” Grantaire says, sounding a little out of breath as the two of them exit the ring about two hours later.

“Thank you,” Enjolras replies, his own breaths coming out ragged. “You’re a great teacher.”

“Thanks, Enj,” Grantaire says, pulling off his headgear. Enjolras mimics his movements, and when he looks back at Grantaire, the other man seems almost nervous. “I was wondering, uh, if you wanted to grab some food or something?” he rushes to say.

Enjolras tries hard to keep his face neutral. 

“Sure, that sounds great,” he says, and honestly, he is very proud that an actual, normal sentence comes out of his mouth. 

“Do you wanna shower off first?” Grantaire asks, and something must show on Enjolras’s dumb face because he quickly amends, “Not like...together. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Enjolras laughs awkwardly. “Um, yeah, I should probably...I’m really sweaty.” 

Grantaire chuckles at that, and Enjolras tries not to stare at the way his nose crinkles as he does so. “You make me laugh,” he says, sounding impossibly fond, and then he’s wrapping his fingers around Enjolras’s wrist for a few seconds and Enjolras feels dizzy with desire.

After they’ve showered and changed out of their sweaty clothes, Grantaire leaves his bike in the parking lot and leads them a few blocks away from the gym to a tiny Turkish restaurant Enjolras has never noticed before. The night air chills him through his light jacket, the temperature having fallen lower than he was anticipating as he and Grantaire trained. 

“I hope you like kebabs,” Grantaire says as he pulls open the glass door and gestures for Enjolras to go inside, a bell chiming above them as they enter. He’s immediately met with a delicious mix of smells - spices and roasting meats - and his stomach growls, clearly interested. 

Inside, there’s only room for four tables, and the open-faced grills and vertical rotisseries keep the place warm enough for condensation to collect on the glass front of the restaurant, making everything outside look smudgy and distorted. At the back is an L-shaped counter, packed to the brim with an assortment of toppings for the kebabs, and behind that are the worn-looking menu boards displaying their selection and prices, small pieces of paper with hand-written numbers taped over them in some places to indicate the item’s change in cost. 

“R!” comes a voice from somewhere in the restaurant, and Enjolras looks away from the menu to see a teenager - no more than fifteen or sixteen - bound around the corner and appear behind the counter in front of them.

“Hey there, Rahmi,” Grantaire greets, reaching across the deli-style case to meet the young man with a clearly-well-rehearsed handshake. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going, man,” Rahmi answers, hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the back of the restaurant, where there’s glimpses of a small table and chair hidden away behind storage shelves. It’s clear this spot is set up as a study area for the student to work on his homework. “Fuckin’ calculus,” Rahmi grumbles. 

“Ah, sorry, kiddo,” Grantaire says. “You know I don’t know shit about math.”

“I know,” Rahmi says with a smile. “You got me for that next English essay though, right?”

“I’ll give _To Kill a Mockingbird_ a reread this weekend,” Grantaire says with a grin, and Rahmi fists bumps him before setting to work preparing their kebabs.

  
  


“You’re not a cynic, you know,” Enjolras says a little while later, during a lull in conversation. It’s something he’d been thinking about more often than he cared to admit. After meetings, Enjolras would go home and replay over and over in his head everything Grantaire had said, every twitch of his mouth, every flash of emotion in his eyes. Grantaire was always so quick to offer his nihilistic thoughts during meetings, seemingly delighting in getting under Enjolras’s skin. Anyone who didn’t really know Grantaire would assume he’s your run-of-the-mill, glass-half-empty pessimist, but Enjolras knows better. He may let on that he believes all of Les Amis efforts are for naught, but he’s also the first one to volunteer his time to the cause. He’s started attending every single event and fundraiser they have as long as he isn’t working, and he puts obvious time and detail into the fliers and marketing materials he creates for them. To Enjolras, something just doesn’t add up. 

“No?” Grantaire asks, his mouth quirking into a smile that looks a little like a challenge. 

“No. I feel like with cynicism comes a certain level of apathy. But you’re not apathetic. You care, and it hurts. I get it. It’s easier to be all doom-and-gloom than to continue being disappointed,” Enjolras says carefully. 

“What makes you think I care?” Grantaire asks in response, his voice dropping to something softer and more sincere. His eyes are on Enjolras, their gaze heavy, and it ignites something strange and visceral under Enjolras’s skin.

“You’re always helping,” he says, with a shrug. “You attend every event, you volunteer, you’re constantly recruiting for us. Clearly, you must think we’re doing _something_ of value, or else, why bother?”

Grantaire watches Enjolras for a moment, and then he ducks his head and murmurs, “Maybe I have other reasons for doing those things.” 

“Yeah?” Enjolras asks. “Like what?”

Grantaire turns his head to the side, looking away for a moment as if in thought, before he once again meets Enjolras’s gaze and says, “Like impressing you.”

Enjolras knows he blushes at that. “Me? Why do you want to impress me?”

“Well you’re the most impressive person I know,” Grantaire says matter-of-factly. He takes a large bite of falafel, and continues with his mouth full. Enjolras doesn’t know what it says about him that he finds it endearing rather than disgusting. “I’m just trying to keep up.”

“I impress you?” Enjolras asks, his heart doing a very distracting dance inside his chest. 

“Come on Enj,” Grantaire says, looking up at Enjolras in a way that implies what he’s about to say is obvious. “You’re the smartest person I know, you’re good at literally everything you do, and you care about people more than anyone I’ve ever met. Not to mention you...look like _that,_ ” he finishes, gesturing at Enjolras vaguely. 

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t fish,” Grantaire says, his tone wry. 

“I’m not fishing!” Enjolras insists. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says his name very slowly. “You are so _so_ hot. I’m _sure_ you get that all the time, yeah?”

“Oh,” Enjolras replies, surprised. He had no idea Grantaire saw him that way, and the new information was almost too much to bear. “Thank you,” he says for lack of anything better.

“You betcha,” Grantaire says, looking down at his food.

They’re silent for a moment as Grantaire takes another bite and Enjolras struggles for something to say. Eventually, “Well, you already know I -” He stops, clears his throat, starts again. “That I feel similarly.” Enjolras is referring to his oddly-timed, post-KO confession weeks and weeks ago, when his mind had been too rattled - _literally_ \- to stop the words from spilling off his tongue.

Grantaire’s head snaps up at that, and then a small smile is titling the corner of his mouth. “You remember that?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Enjolras answers, and because he’s feeling brave, “And for your information, I was _not_ delusional. Concussed maybe, but not that.”

Grantaire barks out a short, sharp laugh, and Enjolras is ridiculously pleased with himself when a gorgeous flush crawls up his neck. “Eat your kebab, Enjolras.” 

He does.

It’s very good.

He tells Rahmi as much, calling across the restaurant, and the teenager pops his head around the corner, offering a thumbs up and a winning smile. When Enjolras turns back to Grantaire, he's staring at him strangely.

“What?” he asks, going to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear before he remembers he’s pulled it up into a bun. He aborts the action and feels himself blush hot under Grantaire’s look.

“Nothing, I just-” Grantaire stops. “I like being around you, Enj,” he finishes, and in response, Enjolras bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to let how ridiculously pleased he is at that show on his face. 

“I like being around you too, R,” Enjolras says. He knows his voice shakes, and he can’t bear to look up at the other man to see his reaction. 

Under the table, Grantaire’s foot comes to rest against Enjolras’s.

Things flow easily after that, the two of them sitting under the fluorescent lights in the kebab shop as the sky outside turns an inky black. They talk about everything and nothing, and Enjolras laughs when Grantaire recounts a funny bit from a stand-up show he’d watched over the weekend and he almost gets choked up when Grantaire tells him why his day was shitty, showing him a part of himself that Enjolras feels too protective of to even speak about.

And, _god,_ he’s told himself over and over that he can be okay with just Grantaire’s friendship, that there’s no _just_ anything when it comes to Grantaire, and he’s fine with that, he’s so, _so_ good with that, but _god-_

This feels like more than friendship. This feels like-

“Grantaire?”

“Hm?” the other man hums, effectively cutting off whatever story he’d been telling that Enjolras certainly wasn’t listening to. He’d apologize for that later. 

“Can I ask you something?” he asks, and across the table, Grantaire raises his eyebrows expectantly. As quickly as he can manage, Enjolras chokes out, “Was this a date?” 

For a moment, it’s like Grantaire pauses. He’s completely still as Enjolras watches on, and it’s like he can see Grantaire’s brilliant brain working under those curls, putting together pieces of a particularly pretty puzzle. Finally, he asks, “Did you...did you want it to be a date?”

Enjolras swallows. “Um. Did you?”

“I asked you first,” Grantaire says.

“Technically, I asked first,” Enjolras counters.

“Yes.” 

Enjolras feels many, many things all at once, and he’s nearly _vibrating_ where he sits. “Yes?” 

“Yes, I would really like it if this was a date. And if we could...you know...have more dates,” Grantaire says, and then he bites his bottom lip like he’s _nervous_ and that is so ridiculous to Enjolras, how can _Grantaire_ be nervous about that, of course Enjolras would only - _can_ only - say _yes yes yes-_

Grantaire kisses him.

He just leans over, he plants one hand on the small table between them and one hand firmly against the side of Enjolras’s neck, and he just...kisses him. 

_No_ , Enjolras amends, turning to a puddle under Grantaire’s attentions. _This isn’t_ just _kissing. There’s nothing_ just _about this._

“Sorry to interrupt, boys,” Rahmi says then, clearing his throat, and Enjolras and Grantaire quickly pull apart. “I gotta lock up.”

Enjolras can’t look away from Grantaire. It’s like he’s in a trance, and he barely notices when the other man jumps from his seat, tossing a _Later, Rahmi_ over his shoulder, and pulls Enjolras along. 

They kiss again when they get outside, pressed against each other under the streetlight.

They kiss again on the bike, Grantaire practically bending Enjolras backwards over the seat.

They kiss again at Enjolras’s front door, lazy drags of their mouths, at once familiar and still, entirely revolutionary. There’s never been anything like this before, Enjolras is sure of it.

After a long time that is still not quite long enough, they finallypull apart for the night, breathless. Enjolras would mourn this loss, except that as he watches Grantaire jog down the stairs of his apartment building, grinning up at Enjolras before disappearing from sight, it only feels like a promise of _so much more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please picture Grantaire happily and enthusiastically shadowboxing his way back to his motorcycle after this, because that is precisely what happened.)
> 
> Andddd.....we're done!! Huge thanks to everyone who took the time to read this and leave kind comments <3 It means so much to me and I love you all!
> 
> Finally, a special shoutout to [carverly](https://carverly.tumblr.com) for waiting over half a year for me to finish your Les Mis Secret Santa gift 😬♥️


End file.
